All The Other Stars
by LovelyLittleFreckle
Summary: A post-3.10 re-imagining of Agnes and her origins. Liz is attempting to get back on her feet after being on the run with Red and, with lingering threats from the Cabal and her former husband still looming, she navigates her choices about how to raise a child with an international criminal. Rated Mature for future chapters.
1. Orbit

For days she imagined what it would feel like to be free, though she knew better than to hope for it. Even in her wildest dreams, she had never considered what she would do if she were to become a wanted criminal, go on the run from both the law and a corrupt government cabal only to be locked away at the end. She had tried to trace back the past few months to figure out what had gone wrong, but the threads she followed always threatened to unravel everything, even the good things left in her life. It wasn't so long ago that this life she'd been living recently was the never so much as a fear. She was going to be an FBI agent. She was going to be a wife and a mother. She was going help people.

As the days and hours dragged on and various lawyers and agents talked about her outside her cell like she wasn't there, she felt it best to get accustomed to incarceration; but when she finally did, it overwhelmed her. She remembered it washing over her like a cold, oppressive wave, collapsing her lungs and chilling her skin… shocking her breathless and numb. It felt familiar and a little too accessible; then she recalled how recently she'd been shoved in that box and suffocated slowly, a feeling that would probably never leave her as long as she lived. Her chest still burned from the long moments she spent gasping on the ground, praying in earnest that she would just be allowed give up consciousness. She remembered her lungs sipping for air and realizing the cruel irony of dying in the box that was originally meant to protect her from Reddington. And that all she could think of as she floundered for breath, was that she would never see his face again.

In her holding cell, she cried desperate tears into the slick fabric of Ressler's jacket that she had stuffed into the corner of her cell as a makeshift pillow. She could smell his cologne in the fabric and it brought back the day she had fallen into his arms outside the Stewmaker's cabin. How much things had changed since then. But just like that day, he remained stoic, unable to calm her from the other side of the bars as sobs wracked her body and reverberated from the walls.

When the moment came for her to sign away everything she'd worked for, she searched his eyes in vain for guidance.

"What would you do, Ressler? Would you give up being an agent?" she asked, her voice pleading for something she couldn't place. "If you were in my shoes, would you sign it?" She twisted the pen between her fingers as she weighed her options, and he carefully chose his words.

"Keen, you aren't going to be an agent again either way. They're giving you a get out of jail free card, here," he'd offered delicately, trying to be warm though his words were cool and punishing. He had been right, of course; her fate was already sealed. If this was the result of Raymond Reddington moving heaven and earth to help her, then this really was the best she could ever hope for. No other force, short of an act of god, was going to move the scales in her favor if he couldn't.

When Ressler's phone rang, he placed the call on speaker and Red's voice was masked by the fragile phone reception.

"This does not change who you _are_ , Lizzie," he said. "It doesn't negate your talents. That badge is not your only key to helping people." Her eyes welled again with tears as she gripped the pen, digging her fingernails into her palms. "I understand your hesitation and I can appreciate how counterintuitive this seems. But sign it. The rest will come in time."

And with the scratch of the pen, she was escorted upstairs to gather her things. She hadn't realized that, by then, the sun had set; she'd had no way to gauge time in her holding cell. She wasn't even entirely sure what day of the week it was. The hallway outside the processing room was empty and dim, the last of the employees had long since gone home.

She foolishly hoped that Ressler might have stuck around to give her a ride home, letting what was left of his loyalty linger long enough to say goodbye. But even he had been up for hours now. But surely Aram would have heard she was being released and he might show up to take her home, maybe sit down with her for a cup of coffee. But the truth was, even if he had, she didn't have anywhere to go. She was relieved to go through this moment alone: the realization that her former home was unsafe and her former life unreachable. And that whoever offered her help right now would end having to shoulder part of her burden. She couldn't think of anyone she'd wish that on.

Her footsteps on the marble staircase echoed in the lobby. Outside there was no breeze and the street was eerily quiet - no cars, no pedestrians. She could hear her breath, her pounding heartbeat whooshing in her ears. She straightened her back and walked confidently in the direction of the parking lot and then stopped; she hadn't driven here herself. She turned back, hoping to find something inviting, some warm light from a window – a coffee shop or maybe a diner where she could sit and be near strangers. But nondescript concrete surrounded her on all sides. Not unlike it had inside.

Her arms hung limp at her sides and she was reminded of how it felt to be a child, the first day of kindergarten, stripped of everything familiar and trying to get by in a world for which, despite all its familiarity, no one had prepared her. She'd give anything to feel Sam's hand on her shoulder, just like she had then. _One foot in front of the other, Butterball. That's all you gotta do._ And so she set out toward the corner where she heard a car engine idling. With any luck it would be a cab; with the change left in the pocket of her jeans, she could take it to a motel where she could shower and sleep. But no sooner had she resigned herself to a night between scratchy sheets and cold air conditioning, she recognized someone waiting for her next to an idling black sedan.

She'd never been so happy to see Red's face.

The joy and relief she felt caused her to exhale sharply, something like a burst of laughter. Without so much as checking for traffic, she walked toward him with purpose - an awed smile curving her lips and lifting her cheeks for the first time in so long. His eyes were soft, proud even under these strange circumstances. As she approached, he straightened, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking for all the world like a boy anticipating his date. She stopped a conversation's pace away to study his face, to make sure it was real. She indulged an honest sigh of relief, shaking her head in disbelief.

Without a word, she threw her arms around his neck, catching him by surprise. His shoulders tensed, and he snuck his arms around her back, ran his hand through her hair. She buried her face into the skin-warm wool of his collar and listened to his pulse thrumming against her ear for a long, indulgent moment.

"You came," she whispered. "Thank you."

He leaned away to place his rough palm against her cheek and she leaned against it. Her eyes had dipped from his and he dropped his chin to catch them again.

"Of course I did, Lizzie."

As if it was nothing. As if it was a foregone conclusion that he of all people would be the one to gather her up when she needed it. Instead of bringing her comfort, it brought her back to the panic she'd felt the last time she'd dared to rely on his presence, that gas station in the little town where he'd been kidnapped by thieves. It was the last time she'd seen his face. No wonder the feeling of abandonment and fear was so easily accessible, almost bookmarked in her brain.

"Are you OK?" she asked, running her hands down his arms like she was inspecting them through his jacket. "I was so worried, when I saw the car was gone…" her voice trailed off as he laughed off her concern genially.

"It amounted to a very poorly attended tea party where I had to bear witness to a bizarre… family feud of sorts," he said, squinting as though the memory of it was just a ways in the distance. "But I came out mostly unscathed. Though I will say it did nothing to improve my fondness for trailer parks."

She blinked, amused but puzzled at his casual, disarming tone.

"A story for another time," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?"

"Not really, no," she answered. "But I could use a drink."

"That can be arranged," he said, opening the car door and beckoning her inside.

The apartment where Red was staying was predictably elegant and well appointed, displaying a personal style that made it clear that this was one of his more consistent hideaways. While he poured their wine, he explained that Mr. Kaplan would take her out the next day to look for an apartment, though she was welcome to stay in his as long as she wished.

"Kate has been particularly eager to see you," he said, handing her a glass from the other side of the kitchen, over a small but sturdy marble bar. The thought of Mr. Kaplan being happy to see her filled her with a sense of belonging that felt oddly foreign.

"I'm looking forward to seeing her too," Liz said, swirling the wine in the glass as a means of avoiding eye contact. "Dembe too." Red hummed an acknowledgement as he took a sip and immediately put down his glass, as if to signal that he wanted to discuss something of importance.

"We can talk about your present situation or not," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm not sure what I would prefer if I were in your shoes, but I'm happy to leave the logistical discussion for another day if that's what you'd like."

"It's fine," she said, her tone short but resolute. "I'll have to start thinking about it soon enough anyway. I can already tell which doors are closed, so it might be smart to look for ones that are still open."

"Don't think of doors as being closed, Lizzie," he said kindly. "As I said, your talents are still with you and they are valuable to your former employer."

"Well don't take this the wrong way, but not everyone has the ability to waltz into the FBI with a checkered past and leave with a job offer," she said, smiling.

"You're right," he nodded, chewing the inside of his lip thoughtfully. "But even fewer have Raymond Reddington as their character reference. I made a call to Harold Cooper. Your former position is open to you on a consulting basis should you wish to return."

"You called Cooper?" she asked, something in her voice sounding unexpectedly sour. "You didn't need to do that."

"Again, Lizzie, we do not have to discuss this now," he said, cut short by an exasperated shake of her head.

"No, I mean, I can't just go in there and expect my old job back; not after everything that happened. Cooper _watched_ me kill Tom Connolly," she said.

"Lizzie, you are talented enough to write your own ticket," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not sure you're understanding the fact that he would not be doing you some kind of favor here. Much the opposite, in fact. You have leverage and you have as much time as you'd like to consider your options."

"I think you are the only person in the world who could see my current position as being full of options," she said. "I can't tell if that makes you an exceptional friend or a just... delusional."

Red laughed and her frown relaxed. Either way it was a decision for another time, another day.

"I've spent the last three months seeing myself as a criminal, as the enemy of my former coworkers. Everywhere we went people saw me as a murderer, a terrorist. I don't know that it will go away overnight," she said, feeling the weight of those judgements stoop her shoulders. Her voice dipped into a near whisper. "We never really talked about Connolly. Or why I did what I did. Maybe at some point we will, but I just feel like something inside of me that used to make me good at my job is… broken."

Red got up to stand next to her at the little kitchen bar whose marble had cooled her forearms while she leaned against it. He took her hand and for a few moments he stroked his thumb over and over her tendons and delicate skin until she dropped her head to his shoulder. He didn't offer any words and she offered no explanation; he knew better than anyone what it felt like to have the world look at you and see a distortion. A wanted poster. The enemy.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't know what I did to deserve your help but thank you." Her voice broke a bit, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

"I know you feel that way right now, Lizzie. But you deserve all the help I can provide," he said. "The rest will come in time."

But it wasn't enough. All the seemingly blind devotion in the world couldn't fend off the feeling that nothing waited for her on the other side of this ordeal. That despite having a job to go back to, that maybe she just wasn't cut out to do this. That someone else in her shoes would have acted differently, not gotten caught up in the same pitfalls that seemed to call to her. She began to cry again and he pressed her shoulder blade closer to him, and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I just need…" she said, her voice trailing off again as she realized she didn't know quite how to put it into words. "I just want to feel something. Anything other than… broken." She felt choked and raw, a coiling ache clamping down on her. His steady hands on her body reminded her how much she missed intimacy, another person's skin, the sound of another heartbeat… the way that it grounded her. He whispered his understanding, mistaking her need as just a passing craving for comfort. He held her in his arms, one drawn around her waist, the other woven through her hair in that way he always did. She kept her arms limp at her sides, feeling as though she was suspended. She drew her hand to his cheek, running her thumb over the scruff of his jaw. She pressed her lips to his neck, over the faded white scar she'd left there, and his body tensed against her.

"Lizzie," he said, like a warning. She could feel the tendons in his neck jump with the effort of a gulp.

"Just… don't," she whispered. "I'm fine. I know I will be fine. But right now, I just need to feel something else."

"I don't want to just be a convenience to you Lizzie," he said. "But I don't want to watch you suffer either."

"Well, now who's being ridiculous," she said, meeting his eyes. "You are the least convenient person I know."

"I don't quite know how to take that," he said, smiling back at her.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you that this is not even close to the first time I've thought about this?" she asked, her voice low and husky and close.

It was all he needed.

She could feel his nose nudge her cheek, leaning down to meet her lips, hovering them tantalizingly close but not quite touching.

"I've dreamt of this many times myself," he said, his breath ghosting across her face, disturbing wavy blonde tendrils of her hair. From the corner of his eye he could just make out the crest of her cheek, rising into a smile. His lips were so tender on hers, warm and satiny and languid. His breath made something in her gut smolder like a stoked ember, something like flames curling over her skin that thawed the parts of her that wanted to second guess herself. She knew that, soon, this wouldn't be enough, as comforting as it was. She didn't so much need comfort as she needed some kind of release. He cradled the nape of her neck, his thumb flush with her pulse, hammering away against his touch.

She passed her tongue over the soft flesh of his bottom lip, then drew it delicately between her teeth. He tasted oaky and sweet the wine on their tongues tinging their kiss with something thrilling and illicit. Her tongue lapped at his, slowly, delicately. Something about the squelching sound of their lips parting and finding each other again made her feel frantic and wild.

"What else have you been dreaming about?" she asked, leaving his lips to hang slack, searching for hers in the space between them. His eyes were heavy with lust, and searched hers with the feral quality she'd never seen before – dark and perilous. He cocked his head, that way he did when he wanted her to know he was considering his answer carefully. While gathering his thoughts his eyes dropped to look at her lips and locked them again on hers as he answered.

"I've been dreaming about helping you forget," he said, encircling her wrists in his rough, wide hands.

"Forget what?" she said, all the breath leaving her lungs.

"Everything."


	2. Gravity

Forgetting what had made her feel broken should not have been that easy, but for one evening and for one decent night's sleep, it was. It wasn't as though anything had been simplified or solved; it was more that the white noise that constantly crackled in her mind had been turned off, placed on a shelf to be tended to some other time. Without the hum of anxiety that had been plaguing her, she could focus her energy somewhere entirely different – her freedom, her body, her breath. Being with Red didn't allow for her mind to be anywhere else. Unlike any sex she'd had before, it grounded her, enveloped her… it became everything around her.

He had insisted on undressing her himself – taking his time to savor every part of her, take in every inch of her skin like he was committing it to memory. When she tried to touch him for his pleasure instead of her own… moving to kneel in front of him, reaching to stroke the length of him in her hand, his hands would drift to her wrists, binding them gently but firmly.

 _Focus, Lizzie. Trust me, right now I am not the one who needs an escape._

She had forgotten what it felt like to be revered instead of pampered, appreciated but not from a pedestal. To be touched by someone who was confident instead of cloying.

When her breath would waver, when she was too deep into her own thoughts, he would whisper in her ear.

 _Look at me, Lizzie._

 _Let go._

 _All I want is to watch you come._

For the first time in so, so long she breathed deep enough that the air stretched her chest, her belly, her lungs, until all she could feel was the coiling heat of his tongue against her. Her legs convulsed wildly and clamped against his face as she came against his lips. She'd never been so loud, so reckless – all she could hear was her own voice ringing out. She remembered saying it before letting her eyes roll back into oblivion. _Don't stop, Red. Oh my god, don't ever stop._

She remembered coming in waves, rolling and crashing and towing her under. And then the fog lifted.

And finally, finally her mind was quiet.

She had lied about having experienced this feeling years ago, in a yoga class. She could contort herself all she wanted, focus as hard as she could on the act of focusing; but she quickly realized that that was an exercise in futility. The stillness would never quite get into the corners of her mind where doubt and worry festered. She began to wonder if she was just not meant to feel clarity, if she was destined to be one of those people who were always sensitive, alert and tightly wound. That maybe her purpose was to be constantly vigilant and always on guard – maybe it was just the career she'd chosen. But clearly she'd been capable of it all along, she had just chosen the wrong outlet in yoga. If she had known that sweating naked on top of Raymond Reddington could get her the result she'd been looking for after hours in a yoga studio, she would have pursued it in earnest long ago.

It was no surprise to her why she'd never felt that with Tom. For some reason that she could never quite explain, she felt like she was putting on a show when she was making love to him, that there was a disconnect between them that necessitated performance and veneer. Everything between them had been a cliché expertly designed to make Liz feel like she was living out some movie. It left very little time for honest conversation, and he was always so goddamn defensive. She had toyed with the idea before of telling him that he was too gentle, too tentative… that she hated trying to come while someone called her "babe"… but it was never a battle she wanted to choose. It was easier to lie, to play the part. And now, in a twisted way, she knew that Tom understood what that was like. No wonder there had always been a part of her that liked to wait until she was alone, away from his eyes, not having to put on a show.

And for longer than she cared to admit, the solitude was enticing because she could imagine without guilt that it was Red's hands touching her. His fingers slipping over her body in a warm bathtub instead of her own. More than once she had mouthed his name as she finished, trying out what it would feel like on her lips. It was always _Raymond_ , never _Red._ She couldn't bring herself to use a name for him that was so familiar; it would feel real enough to scare her.

In her fantasies, she had never gotten further than mentally superimposing his physical features over Tom's. She had always envisioned that Red would be no different when it came to sex, maybe because it had been so long since she'd been with someone else. But even then, Red was so devoted and careful around her that she assumed he would be as gentle and tentative as Tom. She shrugged off her fantasies, convincing herself that he would likely be just as timid with her body as he was with information. She had never imagined that, upon her invitation, he would treat her body like a rare instrument at which he was both expert and fascinated.

The first time he saw her entirely naked, laying on his bed while he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, he bit the corner of his lip like he always did when he was admiring her. His head lolled to the side, as if to see her from a different angle. He let out a breathy chuckle that vaguely formed the words _my god._ She'd asked him what he meant. And all he'd said before taking off his shirt and stepping out of his pants was _"I don't think I can last long enough to do you justice."_ It made her feel powerful.

He had clearly wanted to take his time, but she remembered wriggling and writhing under him impatiently. Taunting him as he dragged his tongue and lips and fingers across her skin at his leisure. _It's yours. Come on. I need you. Please._

Finally, he gave in, settling for just a few more long, languid kisses pressed against her mouth, her face, her neck.

" _We should really… use something…"_ he had said as he hovered above her, his usually modest lips hanging slack from his face, swollen and tender from use. He reached toward the bedside table, moving to put his knee between hers as he leaned over to open a drawer. " _Don't."_ She stopped him, splaying a hand over his chest, next to his heart, leaving it for a few moments as it thrummed away against her palm, a bird trying to escape its cage. He squinted, tilting his head just slightly to search her eyes for any hint of hesitation. She moved her hand on the back of his neck, cool from sweat, and crushed his lips to hers until his body laid flush with hers. The hair on his stomach tickled her, the sweat that spread like dew across his face now running down the taut tendons in his neck, over his chest, mingling with hers. _"Just pull out,"_ she'd said breathlessly. _"I don't think I'll be able to stop myself once I'm inside you Lizzie. I know I won't."_ She arched her back until she could feel him hard against her, straining toward her with every vein, every capillary… _"I'm kind of hoping you won't."_ Without waiting for any further explanation, he complied, burying himself in her to the hilt.And after that, they could never return.

The next day, he was gone before she got out of bed, though she vaguely remembered his lips on her cheek and a whispered goodbye. She had things to attend to, as did he. Mr. Kaplan had taken her on a whirlwind tour of a few nearby neighborhoods, assuring her that the priority was on finding her somewhere safe to live – that timing and money were not to be considered until later. But Liz was insistent that she should find something she could afford on her own with what she had left of her savings. And she was anxious to make a space her own; it had been so long since she'd had her own apartment and she remembered how she loved dragging furniture, panting walls, hanging up shelves just so until it truly felt like hers.

Liz was resolute when she put down a deposit on the third apartment they saw, insisting that she would like to get the keys that same day. There was no reason to wait. Mr. Kaplan had put up a momentary fuss, telling her that she had another three pages of listings for them to look at and she had made time for them to spend the whole afternoon if they needed to. Liz assured her that she was more than happy, taking a moment to sit on the wide window sill and look out on to the quiet street below, lined with ornamental plum trees, swaying aubergine and burgundy in the breeze. It felt nearly like home and that was more than she had ever hoped to find mere days ago.

"Besides, since we're done early I can take you out to lunch," Liz said with a smile. "You've been so helpful, it's the least I can do."

Mr. Kaplan turned to the landlord and presented a check to him in her usual clipped-yet-kind manner.

"She knows what she wants," she said, handing over the check to the still stunned landlord. "It's one of her finer qualities."

While paperwork was drawn up and Mr. Kaplan phoned in various moving arrangements, Liz walked around the brightly daylit living room. The wood floors made the entire front room smell like a library, the heady tonic of lumber seasoned with pacing, living and time. The giant windows that stood opposite the front door had softened her from the very beginning – they were a bit cloudy from age and it dampened the streaming sunshine filtering through the trees, but something about it made her feel nostalgic for the old homes that stood proud and sturdy on the street where she grew up in Nebraska. _Sam would like this place,_ she thought to herself as she peered out her window down the block at a little park where children were playing.

The bedroom was spacious but simple; room for a bed, a nightstand or two. Though it occurred to her that she only needed the one. But what had convinced her was the giant clawfoot tub in the bathroom. The idea of taking a bath by herself with a glass of wine made her want to cry with relief. The words _I'll take it_ , had echoed off the tile and porcelain with a decisive ring that she felt was fitting.

Over lunch, Mr. Kaplan was polite but mostly quiet; Liz had expected as much but had been excited at the idea of spending some time alone with Mr. Kaplan. There had been a time when she would have used the opportunity to dig for information about Red, or what she might know about her parents. Instead she was content to discuss the apartment and moving arrangements, sharing lunch in the small diner down the street from her new place.

"I should be able to access my accounts in the next couple of days, so be sure to let me know how much to draft a payment for," Liz said, pouring some cream into her coffee. She had insisted on ordering pie although Mr. Kaplan had waved it off at first. _You and Raymond. Always insisting on food._

"Don't worry about the money for now, dearie," she said, making a move to grab the check before Liz plucked it out of her reach, taking out some cash to pay the tab that she'd had in her jacket pocket.

"No, I don't want to be dependent on Red," she said, resolutely. "He's very kind to do this, to front me the money, but I would feel like I was indebted to him and I don't want either of us to get used to that."

There was a moment of hesitation as Mr. Kaplan met Liz's eyes. Her lips pursed subtly, then she looked away.

"What is it?" Liz asked, noticing the small change in the air between them.

"It's nothing," she said, fiddling with some paperwork. Then she stopped, looking off into the near distance as she collected the words she wanted to say carefully. "I understand how proud you are, Liz. I have always been that way myself. But Raymond would never treat you as though you owed him something. You are one of very few people on this earth that he cares for enough to be selfless about it. You have plenty to worry about already, he'd want you to relax."

"Trust me, I know," Liz said, the words slipping out before she could catch them. An awkward pause punctuated her words and she hoped Mr. Kaplan couldn't sense that Liz was internally referring to the tryst she'd had with him the night before.

"I just don't know why," Liz said, hoping to brush it off. "I'd probably feel more comfortable if I understood why I'm so important to him. But I've given up trying to figure it out. For now."

"I don't blame you, dearie," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "I think in your position I would have given up long ago."

They were quiet for a few moments, sipping their coffee while the conversation they'd just had lingered around them, hovering in the space between them like a house fly.

Later that evening Liz sat on her floor surrounded by the few boxes of essentials that she and Dembe had lugged up her stairs from her storage locker, a few files that Cooper had had sent over in hopes of enticing her back to work… and a gallon of paint.

"This is for you Elizabeth," Dembe had said, in his formal but soothing voice. He handed her the bucket of paint along with a kit full of drop clothes and brushes. She looked at him, amused. "A housewarming gift from me. Chicago Skyline."

She couldn't believe that he had remembered the paint color of her kitchen, although he had clearly been very fond of it when he had inquired about it at her old apartment. She was so eager to see what it would look like in the light of her new living room that she rolled up her sleeves and opened the brand-new brushes, painting swatches on the walls where they would catch various light when the sun came up in the morning. It reminded her so vividly of the nursery she had planned with Tom that it stopped her brush mid-stroke. The reminder of the life she had almost built with a stranger chilled her to the bone. A baby had almost gotten caught up in the fraud that was her marriage to Tom Keen.

A knock on the door startled her; it was nearly eight o'clock and well past dusk. She wasn't expecting anyone. She lowered her voice, hoping to sound believably menacing.

"Who is it?" she said, setting down her paint brush and bucket by the window, moving slowly toward the door. No one who would wish her ill could have found her so quickly, could they?

"It's Raymond."

It jarred her that the sound of his voice made her heart race. It was now going to be impossible to look at him without thinking about sex. She let her hand linger on the door knob for a moment before turning it, trying to gather her composure enough to not immediately think of him naked when she saw him. But when she opened the door, her eyes immediately dropped from his eyes to his lips, remembering the taste of his mouth and the way he kissed her like a drowning man gasping for air.

"I hope you don't mind me stopping by like this," he said. She looked down to see his hands were full. "I thought you might need dinner." Whatever was in the plastic bags smelled like garlic and meat and it made her stomach growl.

"Please," she said, motioning for him to come in. "That was very thoughtful of you."

"I know how it is to move," he said, rustling open the two bags full of take out from the Italian restaurant she recognized from near his apartment. "There's never enough time, you're tired," he said, his eyes pinched as he shook his head in empathy. "Not to mention that when food finally does occur to you, you've forgotten where you packed the cutlery and plates. I remember more than one occasion that I ate leftover Chinese food with my hands, surrounded by boxes of god-knows-what."

"That sounds about right," she said, watching him make quick work of taking out the little boxes and lining up two plates and two forks.

"I don't have any chairs," she said, looking around.

"I think I'm still capable of sitting on the floor without pulling something," he said, and she laughed a bit nervously. Of course, she knew the extent of his physical capabilities. In flashes, the previous night came back to her. She tried to will it away but it was like a speeding freight train and she was helpless on its tracks. Before she could stop, she looked down at his hands, palms down on the countertop. And suddenly she thought about those hands pressing down on her hips as he drew his tongue over her that first time, sending her head spinning. Those same fingers and intertwined with hers while he gazed at her from between her thighs. Those same palms had warmed her throat as he cradled her windpipe like a reckless but tender whisper, the way he liked to do when he kissed her.

 _Jesus Christ. Stop it Liz. Eat something or you're going to faint._

They both dished up heaping plates of food and sat with their backs against the little bar in the kitchen, looking out her tall windows at the trees swaying in the night air. She had fussed a bit about him having to sit on the floor in his nice suit, but he had insisted that she not worry as he lowered himself with just the slightest groan of exertion. It was getting harder by the moment to remind herself that he was in his fifties; not that she made any difference but she thought about nestling that thought away if she ever needed to snap out of another one of her sexual reveries about him. But she knew it wouldn't work. She knew she didn't care.

They talked about the places they had lived, her plans for the apartment, where she might put her furniture when it came in tomorrow from her old place. He mentioned that she might be happier buying new things but she told him how much she missed her own bed, the plushy softness of her old couch. He chuckled, nodding in agreement. He too had owned furniture that he couldn't bear to part with.

She began to wonder as their conversation progressed if they were going to acknowledge what had happened the night before. The longer they talked, the further she seemed from the night before and wondered if maybe she hadn't dreamt the whole thing. There was a level of comfort and familiarity between them that seemed almost too easy, maybe even delusional. But the fact that they had laid naked next to each other the night before never came up in any particular way. She began to wonder if he'd felt it had been a mistake. Maybe he'd come over to tell her just that and he had just been trying to screw up the nerve to say it since he walked in the door. She felt the creeping seeds of doubt and worry begin to take root again like an insidious weed in a garden she had just cleared.

She reminded herself that she had other things to tend to than Red and how he might have felt about the previous night. What was done was done. She'd put her worries about the nature of their relationship away for now.

"I'll let you back to your painting," he said, taking the empty paper plate from her hand after he stood up and straightened his suit. "Speaking of which I have a something for you."

He produced from his jacket pocket a little red envelope, labeled with her name.

"What's this?" she asked, hesitating as she took it.

"A housewarming gift… of sorts," he said. "You'll see, open it."

Inside the envelope was a little ivory card reading simply:

 _Lizzie. Welcome to your new home. As soon as things are settled, I would like you to pick out any piece of art from my collection – use it to start your own. With All My Love, Raymond._

"I don't know what to say," she said, taken aback by both the gift and the gesture it represented. "This is so generous of you."

"There's no rush," he said, crossing back from the kitchen to stand close enough to take her hand. She could smell his skin and it made every fiber of her stand at attention. "Get a feel for your space, make it your own. Then come by and find something that fits."

Before she could answer he took another step toward her, moving his hand to her waist, pressing his body against hers. His lips were so close that she could feel hers instinctively keen toward him. But he brushed past her lips to her ear.

"It's late," he growled, disturbing the tiny wisps of hair at her temple and making her shiver. She closed her eyes. "If you're wondering if I've noticed that your bed hasn't been delivered… I have. And you are welcome to stay with me another night."

Her voice was caught in her throat. But she managed a reply.

"Let me grab my coat."


	3. Supernova

It didn't take long for Liz to let a familiar level of chaos enter back into her living space. The bedroom was strewn with discarded outfits that she had decided on and against, vowing to hang it all back up when she got back home. She would leave in her wake various wrappers from meal replacement bars, take out containers, and a mess of files that she had taken home to study. At any given time about five folders and two notebooks full of handwritten notes lay on the table. And she absolutely loved it.

She cherished being able to come home at night to her own space, her own bathtub, her own bed. She would sometimes pour herself a glass of wine and prop her feet up on the couch, not realizing for many hours that she hadn't picked up a book or even turned on music. She found she could be content for long stretches to just look out the window at the street below and gather her thoughts. It felt like such an indulgence that she forgot that it was rather normal.

It felt good to work, to regain and qualitative sense of purpose. It was easy to forget that she had been so resistant to the idea. Soon after she got settled, she felt that had put Cooper off long enough, and decided to meet with him. Red had been needling at her about how much she might enjoy the work and she was still the tiniest bit annoyed that he was right.

She arrived at the Post Office early on a Monday morning to meet with Cooper before anyone else got there, hoping to arrange some details about her consulting work without prying eyes or listening ears. Liz rode up in the rickety elevator holding two cups of coffee and as the doors parted into the War Room she felt, despite everything that had happened since she'd been there last, that she was arriving home. A smile crept across her face as she was surrounded by the dormant energy of frenetic chatter, collaboration, and the thrill of the hunt.

Cooper was already there of course, and greeted her fondly, graciously accepting the cup of coffee and using the other arm to extend her an encouraging hug. He chided her that she didn't have to bribe him with coffee to get her job back – that as far as he was concerned, she was already rehired. She laughed politely through her nerves and for several pleasant but stilted moments, they sipped their coffee and made small talk about Charlene, apartment hunting in the city, what various projects the task force had been working on in her and Red's absence… until finally the weight of their meeting took up the air in the room and forced them to get down to the business at hand.

"Keen, I want you to know that I've made peace with something: that I may never understand what it was that made you shoot Tom Connolly," he said, brusque but genuine. The reminder, though it no longer sent her into a tailspin of guilt, made her look away from his eyes. "I know that I had told you that shooting him would erase the good person I had come to know, but the truth is, it's exactly in line with the person I already knew you to be."

"You think that I'm a killer, sir?" she asked, not ready to look him in the eye for fear that she would find disappointment etched on his face. From some people, she would handle that kind of derision with her head held high – but from him she knew it would be too much to bear. She hated to admit how important his paternal acceptance was to her. It felt just as important as Sam's pride in her, and somehow even more rewarding when earned.

"No, Keen," he said reassuringly. "I think that you're a person who would do anything to protect those you care about; it's the reason we all got into this business. It's not the choice I would have made, but that's the luxury of being a bystander," he said. "Truth is, I thought about doing what you did many times. Truthfully, every time he threatened Charlene, I fantasized about doing much worse than what you did."

"It certainly puts things in a different perspective," Liz said, still looking down at her coffee and absently tapping her finger on the lid. "He just had his revenge planned out in such detail… I just knew that there was no way any of us would be safe if I let him leave that room alive."

The harshness of her words, and the realization that she had followed through on that threat, settled into the space between them like a heavy, burdensome fog. There was no doubt they were both envisioning Tom Connolly's face as he gasped his last breaths. But neither of them seemed to be able to muster enough regret to let it show, much less speak about it.

"You are a fierce protector, Keen," he said. "It's much different from being cold-hearted or ruthless. Those traits apply much more to Reddington than they do to you."

His words made her feel as though her heart had been plunged into an ice bath. It startled her.

It wasn't exactly rage and it wasn't as childish as defiance… it was closer to drawing her weapon. It was a wild and feral feeling as though she were defending her own home and it radiated from her like a raging fire. Raymond Reddington was far from cold-hearted or ruthless. She cleared her throat as she tried to navigate a careful response, trying to dampen her need to protect Red's honor like a warrior slaying some beast of her own imagination.

"I learned a lot about Reddington over the past couple of months," she said. "He and I are far more alike than I had realized. And he falls much closer to you and me on the spectrum of morality than you might think. He has a very complex means of determining what is right and what is wrong. His methods may be outside the law, but it seems that things are often made right when he's around. I can't really explain it. But I feel like if I had to profile him now, it would be much different than when we first started working with him."

Cooper nodded, taking in what she had said with narrow-eyed consideration.

"I have also had to amend my opinion of him over the years," he said. "It has pained me to do it because every fiber of my being believed for a long time that he was an enemy of not just the country, but an enemy of what was good. But I can't deny that we've done good work on this task force. And I can't deny his role in that."

"I think we have done good work too, sir," she said, meeting his eyes with an earnest nod. "Even Reddington."

"So, it sounds like you have been thinking like a profiler lately," he said, his voice entering a timbre that sounded like a sales pitch, and it made her smile. "Any chance that I could capitalize on that for the purposes of our task force?"

"I think I'm ready to dip a toe back in," Liz said. "What do you need?"

That morning she left with a briefcase full of files and a government issued cell phone; she could work as much or as little as she wanted but would report to Cooper weekly with various findings on cold cases. Just to start. Quickly that turned into a call every two or three days and then several trips to the Post Office… and then a few cases that required her to go into the field, and even more opportunities to work with her former colleagues who she had missed more than she realized. Slowly she began going out for drinks after work with Aram again, asking Ressler if he wanted anything from the bagel place down the street when she took a lunch break. It felt like old times again.

It had now been three weeks of steady work, and Red had been out of town for most of it, tying up various loose ends from their time on the run everywhere from the Midwest to Bangkok to Amsterdam. He would call her frequently to check in on her various cases, but she was beginning to wonder if he ever planned to come back to Washington DC. Surely, he wasn't going to spend weeks with her on the run, free her from jail, sleep with her and then never see her again… was he? In the late manic hours of the evening when everything was quiet and she was alone, she would check her phone for the fortieth time, and began to wonder: had she dreamt the whole thing? Was she living in some parallel universe where she felt more strongly for Red than he did for her? She would push those feelings away, laying wide eyed awake in her bed remembering the way his hands felt on her skin.

After days of considering that maybe their dalliance had been nothing more than a fling and eating slices of pizza cold from the fridge to distract herself – Red called to say that he would be returning to Washington DC and would like to meet with her that Friday. That gave her two days. She tried her best to sound casual about the idea of seeing him, but like an anxious dog pawing at the door, her heart bubbled over once she hung up the phone and she indulged in the tiniest shriek of excitement. And immediately she felt a sobering wash of embarrassment.

In those two days, she began to feel an overwhelming pull toward him that she had first written off as some lust-fueled crush or that brand of teenage pining that crops up when absence has let the heart grow just a little too fond, eclipsing the reality of who the person was and relegating them to some fantasy. But then it turned into a feeling in her gut; a dramatic and undeniable tether that tugged on her and would not let go, would not loosen its hold on her. She'd never felt anything like it before; it was almost as though she needed him like air. When those words would ghost across her mind she would hate herself for it, covering her head with a pillow and gnashing her teeth against the utter ridiculousness of it.

It was when she began to feel nauseated that she wondered if it wasn't something more than just some mania. She convinced herself she was sick, that she had been eating too much pizza. Suddenly she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a vegetable. She went to the grocery store after work and decided to spend some time in the produce aisle, picking up apples and a pre-made salad. She got three steps past the feminine care aisle and stopped dead. _Might as well rule it out,_ she thought, again feeling immediately rather ridiculous and dramatic at the mere suggestion… even from herself _._ She grabbed three boxes of pregnancy tests and placed them haphazardly in her basket next to the healthy foods that she was sure would make her feel better.

She tore into the grocery bag like she was desperate for its healing properties. _This will be the ticket,_ she thought, pouring the little packet of dressing over the salad that she'd purchased. _If I don't feel better in half an hour, I'll take a test. But I won't have to. I know I won't have to._ The satisfying crunch of the lettuce felt nice and she closed her eyes, listening to the snapping and popping of crisp vegetables between her teeth. _Thank god. I feel better already._ And then something about the dressing made her stomach heave. The slippery texture, the acidity… before she knew what was happening she was bent over her kitchen sink retching helplessly over the drain, a thin veil of sweat covering the back of her neck and chilling her face.

She shoved all her files to one side of the table, some of them dropping to the floor in her haste. She took a deep breath as she ripped open the boxes of pregnancy tests. She downed enough water that she thought she might float away and one by one she peed on the sticks, capped them off and placed them face down on the dining room table. And now there were six of them, waiting, long past due to be checked.

Her hands shook every time she started to reach for the first one and finally she steeled her nerves to turn it over. Two pink lines.

 _That's why you did six of them, Liz, sometimes these things are faulty you know that._

She turned over another… two more pink lines glaring back at her. Her hands scrabbled and faltered as she turned over the remaining four. And she found herself looking at twelve pink lines, all telling her what she already knew to be true, if she was being honest.

She was pregnant.

She felt like she was outside of her body, watching as she picked up her phone and dialed Red's number. Nick's Pizza.

 _Ugh, pizza._

"Lizzie, I was just about to call you. We got in early, would you like to go have some dinner?" He was so calm, so jovial, so excited at the prospect of seeing her. And with tears choking her throat she heard herself say _Do you think you could come over right now?_

"I'm on my way," he said urgently, his phone snapping shut directly after.

She went to the refrigerator and gripped a wine bottle by the neck before she found herself frozen to the spot.

Not only was she going to have to _do_ this.

She was going to have to do it _sober_.


End file.
